Muse, I Miss You!

Recently, my writing abilities have dried up. I am not a believer in writer's block, so don't dare say it's writer's block (to quote the love of my life, "Off with his head!"). I've been sitting here constantly and consistently, trying to type things that make even a little bit of coherent sense. I've written a short story titled, "A Hundred Million Suns", but other than that - nothing, absolutely nothing. I've been fiddling with a dark fantasy trilogy, and it's all good except for the fact that NOTHING HAPPENS. The two characters literally just wander through the desert and look at each other naked in secrecy while being chased by zombies and the government (maybe I need to rethink the plot a bit, just a bit). I've tried poetry, but nothing can quite match the caliber of the works I used to produce when I was actually depressed.

You see, that's the strange thing about writing horror. Your Horrific Muse - that insolent little bastard who sits on your forehead and shits fairy dust all over you - only comes when you can actually picture yourself in a heap of shit. It's as if the little impudent ass wipe knows when you're happy and purposely tries to stay away. He's a lot like God, come to think of it. Plain and simple.

Your Horrific Muse (a.k.a SATAN/GOD, roll with it, people, this isn't a church): "Things are going GREAT! Why don't I just pack my bags and leave and just not return until things are really shitty? Sounds fucking good to me!"

NOW... Ohmygod...

How much more ridiculous can your Muse get? Why can't he just sit there and just shit on you, like all the time... I mean, he shat on Stephen King, he shat on Clive Barker, and Edgar Allan Poe and all the other famous writers who dabbled in the dark arts. What makes THEM so important that Muse gets to shit on THEM all the time?

Muse, if you're reading this from that palace of yours down in hell, and you know I'm pissed at you... Stop laughing right now and come shit on me already. I wrote you a letter.

Dear Muse,


Things just haven't been the same since you left, I feel like I've lost a part of me and I want you back. I might just be silly, I don't even know why I'm writing this. I can't write horror anymore, I can't even listen to sad music without laughing. I'm happy with your replacement, the happiness in my life, but I want you both and I think you two can get along quite well together. She says she's up for a threesome, if you shit on me and provide me with horrific tales to tell, it'll balance out - what with all the happiness she gives me. She loves you too, she loves you Muse, and she wants us to be a big happy family together.


You have made others so happy, what with you shitting on so many people in the past, so I knew it was going to end eventually. But I'm hoping you come back soon, because I can't write without you. You filled me with sadness, and she fills me with happiness. I can't imagine not having either one of you, but if I have to choose I'll choose her.


But please come back, please Muse.


We can be a family!


I miss you,
Wayne.


You see Muse? I need you! I've been waiting by my computer with coffee, I know how much you like coffee, see! I remembered! Now please Muse, come back... I promise you things will be different this time, I won't squeeze the shit out of you...

I'll let it flow, let it come naturally...

Oh yes... And if you're constipated, though, ignore this whole post and know I'm waiting for you! I miss you my old friend, so go take some medicine for that backed up rear-end of yours my dear pet Raven and come back to me already!

P.S. You Fucking Retarded Bird...